Chapter 2: Breakfast of Champions
The first sensation was the sun, a warm blade across her closed eyelids. Then the stiffness in her limbs, the cool, gritty texture of the chaise cushion against her cheek. Christine stirred, a low groan escaping her lips. Every muscle ached with a deep, satisfying fatigue. She was still on the terrace, a light blanket she didn’t remember fetching draped haphazardly over her hips. The empty champagne flute stood sentinel on the table next to the bottle, both gleaming in the harsh morning light.
Memory returned in a warm, shameful flood. The bottle. Her knees on the rug. Marco’s hand in her hair. His promise.
A soft click from the suite behind her made her tense.
Footsteps, more than one set, echoed on the marble floor. They were purposeful, unhurried. She didn’t turn over. She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, her heart beginning a hard, rhythmic knock against her ribs.
The footsteps stopped at the threshold of the terrace doors. She could feel them looking at her.
“Out cold,” a man’s voice said. It wasn’t Marco’s. This voice was deeper, smoother, with a faint accent she couldn’t place.
“She had a late night,” Marco replied. There was a smile in his voice.
The blanket was pulled away from her body in one swift motion. The morning air was cool on her bare skin. She felt exposed, studied. A leaf from one of the potted plants had stuck to her thigh. She fought the urge to brush it away.
“She’s something else,” the new voice murmured. A shadow fell across her face. She could smell clean linen, citrus cologne, and underneath, something distinctly male.
A hand, large and warm, pressed flat against her lower belly. It wasn’t a caress. It was a claim. She flinched, her eyes flying open.
Marco stood a few feet away, already out of his bellhop uniform, wearing simple dark trousers and a t-shirt. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, watching. The other man was crouched beside the chaise. He was older than Marco, maybe mid-thirties, with a strong, clean-shaven jaw and dark eyes that held a glint of sharp appraisal. He wore the hotel’s bartender uniform—a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle.
“Javier,” Marco said, by way of introduction. “He’s in the loop.”
Javier’s hand didn’t move. His thumb stroked a slow, insistent circle on her skin. “Marco told me you like to be of service,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “That you have… appetites.”
Christine’s mouth was dry. She looked from Javier’s intense gaze to Marco’s calm, expectant one. The CEO in her wanted to sit up, to cover herself, to demand an explanation. The other part, the part that had tasted champagne on her own skin, sank deeper into the cushions. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Javier’s smile was brilliant, white against his tanned skin. “Good.”
His other hand came up, not to touch her face, but to cover her mouth. The heel of his palm pressed against her lips. She could smell the clean scent of soap on his skin. “Stay quiet,” he instructed, his tone calm, almost conversational. “Until we tell you otherwise.”
Then his hand was gone, replaced by a sharp, stinging slap between her legs.
She gasped, her body arcing off the chaise, a shockwave of bright, startling pain radiating through her. It wasn’t cruel; it was awakening. Her nerves, dulled by sleep and spent passion, screamed to life.
“Eyes open, Christine,” Marco said. He hadn’t moved from his post. “Watch.”
Javier was unbuckling his belt. He didn’t rush. He made a show of it, the leather sighing as he pulled it free, the button of his trousers popping open. He pushed them down just enough, and then he was there, thick and already hard, nudging against her lips which were still parted in a silent gasp from the slap.
The command was implicit. She obeyed, opening wider. He fed himself into her mouth, his hand coming to rest on the back of her head, fingers tangling in her sleep-mussed hair. He didn’t thrust, not at first. He just held himself there, letting her feel the weight and the heat of him, letting her adjust. She closed her eyes, focusing on the texture, the salt-and-skin taste, the way her jaw began to ache.
“Look at me,” Javier said.
She opened her eyes. He was looking down at her, his expression one of fascinated pleasure. “That’s it. Just take it. You don’t have to do a thing.”
Marco moved then. He came to the other side of the chaise, running a hand along her flank. “Scoot up,” he said softly to Javier, who withdrew from her mouth with a soft, wet sound. Marco positioned her hips, pulling her to the edge of the chaise. He entered her in one smooth, deep stroke. She was still tender from the night before, and she cried out, the sound muffled as Javier immediately pushed himself back into her mouth.
They set a rhythm, not synchronized, but alternating, a relentless tide of sensation. Marco’s thrusts were precise, measured, filling the deep ache she’d woken up with. Javier’s movements in her mouth were more possessive, his grip on her hair firm, guiding her. She was suspended between them, a conduit for their use, her mind blissfully blank. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracking down her temples into her hair.
A knock at the suite door echoed through the room.
Neither man stopped.
“Room service,” Marco grunted, his pace never faltering.
Javier pulled himself from her mouth, a string of saliva connecting her lip to him for a second before it broke. “Get it,” he said to Marco, and then filled her mouth again.
Marco pulled out of her, leaving her feeling hollow and wet. She heard his retreating footsteps, the opening of the door, a muffled exchange. A cart rattled. The smell of coffee and warm pastry filtered onto the terrace.
Javier finally stepped back, tucking himself away. He wiped her mouth with his thumb, then smeared the wetness across her cheek. “On your knees,” he said.
She slid off the chaise, her legs trembling. The cool tile was a shock. Javier wheeled the room service cart next to her. Marco returned, picking up a porcelain cup of black coffee. He took a sip, looking down at her as she knelt naked by the cart, her face level with its polished silver edge.
Javier took a croissant, tearing off a piece. He ate it standing over her. “You should see yourself,” he said through a mouthful. “Pretty little thing.”
Marco sat in the chair she had occupied the night before, crossing an ankle over his knee. “Thirsty?” he asked her, his voice light.
She nodded, her throat raw.
He didn’t hand her a glass. Instead, he nodded to Javier. “Go ahead.”
Understanding dawned a second before Javier unzipped his trousers again. He aimed, and a hot, acrid stream hit the side of her face, splashing onto her shoulder and chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath as the pungent smell filled her nostrils. It was warm, shocking in its intimacy, a final, degrading claim. The sound seemed to go on forever. When it stopped, she was dripping.
Marco stood. He walked over, his shadow falling over her. He unzipped himself and did the same, marking her other side. The two streams mixed, running in rivulets down her breasts, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone.
They finished in silence, zipping up. The scent was overwhelming.
Javier tossed the last of his croissant onto the cart. He ruffled her wet hair. “Good girl,” he said, the words tender and devastating.
Marco looked at his watch. “I’m on shift in twenty. We’ll have the cart taken away later.” He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear. “Clean yourself up. Be at the pool bar tonight at nine. Wear the white dress from your closet. Nothing underneath.”
Then they were gone, their footsteps receding, the suite door clicking shut.
She knelt there for a long time, the sun warming the drying mess on her skin. The city hummed below, indifferent. A fly buzzed around the abandoned breakfast cart. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet. Her body felt liquefied, used, gloriously wrecked. She walked on shaky legs to the terrace railing, looking out over the ordered world of spires and windows.
A slow smile, fragile and real, touched her lips. She was, for the first time in years, entirely empty of thought. The instructions were simple. Clean up. Be at the bar at nine. Wear the white dress.
The emptiness was a gift. She turned and walked inside, heading for the shower, the ghost of their hands still on her skin, the taste of them both still on her tongue.